


brave face talk so lightly (hide the truth)

by dephinecormier



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), discussions of death so be warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dephinecormier/pseuds/dephinecormier
Summary: “I dream of it, of dying” Natasha eventually lets herself admit after some time, into the safety of the early morning.or, the one where Natasha's alive mixed with a casual discussion of death





	brave face talk so lightly (hide the truth)

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a nice, light piece about Natasha's dance background and a universe where Maria also plays the violin until I made the mistake of watching endgame again and it just morphed into this monster so enjoy I guess?

Natasha dreams of dying.

The moments before the fall - how everything seemed to happen in slow motion as Clint jumps, suspended momentarily in thin air; the desperation pumping through her veins as she throws herself over the edge after him, palms sweaty and slipping on the grappling hook, struggling to attach it to his utility belt; the way Clint grabs onto her, causing a jerk of pain to radiate through her shoulder, nails biting into her wrist, gripping so hard that it goes numb, stubbornly refusing to let go; her fingers reaching out to him, hands belying her words even as she’s begging him to let her go, heart racing in fear - torn between being momentarily relieved and cursing him for drawing out the pain of a future that was already set in stone for her, a path that she had long chosen to take.

The way time seemed to stretch endlessly on after she kicks off the side of the cliff, the slide of Clint’s fingers through hers, before she’s falling for what feels like hours, although it must have taken only mere seconds, watching the way he claws at thin air as she does, his silhouette getting smaller and smaller as the cold rush of air chills her skin. She closes her eyes bracing for the impact, reminding herself that it was a necessary choice, one that she chose to make and would make over and over again for her family, and for every single person lost to or who had lost someone in the Decimation.

But all she remembers now is how the breath gets knocked out of her chest, replaced by blinding pain as her body hits the uneven, jagged rocks at the bottom of the cliff, subconsciously cataloging the severeness of her injuries in the split second before her head slams down and it all goes dark.

Except, there’s no pain or broken bones, and the ground is soft below her because it’s not the ground below her but a bed, and she’s mildly aware of the fact that she’s shaking, as she pushes herself upright, tiny tremors running through her body. It’s cold. Too cold, in spite of the sheets covering her - the ones that she has to remind herself to loosen her grip on as she inhales, holds, and then exhales, and tries not to think of how it reminds her of when she had woken up on Vormir alone, the icy water seeping into her tactical suit, chilling her to the bone.

She scrubs a hand over her forehead in a futile effort to erase the memories carved into her mind and opens her eyes slowly as she lets out the breath she’s been holding. She blinks a little in the dim moonlight that had spilled into the room through the gap in the curtains, frowning in confusion as it illuminates the empty spot on the bed beside her. When she sweeps a hand over the untucked sheets, she finds them devoid of Maria’s warmth. _Cold and alone just like you were when you died_ , her brain helpfully supplies her before she can quiet the thoughts. She shivers a little in the moonlight.

Before she can think twice about it, she finds herself kicking her way out of tangled sheets and swinging her feet over the side of the bed, grabbing the hoodie thrown over the back of the armchair on the way out of the bedroom. She realises belatedly, as she’s pulling the hoodie over her head, that it’s the one Maria was wearing the night before, one that smells overwhelmingly of her. A swell of emotion rises in her chest as she buries her nose in the soft fabric of the hood, taking a moment to breathe in that familiar scent - one that has long since faded from the clothes she had “borrowed” from Maria in the five years that had passed after the Decimation; one that she had once tried to replicate in a moment of sentimentality, lathering on the same body wash and moisturiser, only to find it lacking something she couldn’t quite place, merely a pale imitation of the real thing.

The faint sounds of a bow settling across violin strings shake her from her thoughts. The edges of her lips lift, unbidden, into a small smile as she walks towards the source, sweeping the hood off her head, running fingers through her hair until it resembles something better than a rat’s nest.

Maria’s standing facing the window, back bowed slightly, hair falling in her face as she studies the music score in front of her, and Natasha can imagine the small crinkle in her forehead as she does. Her fingers twitch slightly at the memory, yearning to smooth it away. She settles instead for leaning her weight against the doorframe of the office, tracing her tall, lean frame with her eyes - one that she’s spent years studying from a distance in long corridors, on the Helicarrier, in their apartment as Maria drags herself out of bed to get some caffeine in her system with Natasha following close behind her; one that’s been etched into her memory, haunting her every dream during the few periods of restless sleep she had gotten after half the world had disappeared.

Maria straightens, brushing dark hair away from her face impatiently with her forearm, and Natasha can’t help but smile fondly at the familiarity of that sight. She’s missed this, missed her with a deep, bone-aching longing, missed having someone to come home to at the end of the day. Maria inhales softly before she draws the bow back ands starts playing, fingers settling back on well-worn strings.

The sureness of deft fingers on strings almost belies how infrequently Maria plays, but the small hesitations - where muscle memory fails her, as she searches mentally for the positioning for a particular note - gives it away. Natasha doesn’t miss the tension Maria is carrying in her shoulders though, how tightly she holds herself up, pressing her fingers into strings more forcefully than it requires, the pressure against her fingertips a grounding one.

Maria doesn’t play often, only pulls out the worn and dusty case out from under her bed on sleepless nights; when the ghosts of her past feel a little too much like reality or when the voices in her brain overlap into a never-ending crescendo that leave her feeling too keyed up for sleep. Natasha supposes that she could understand that, has always waited patiently for her to finish before coaxing a more pliant, exhausted Maria back to bed, curling around her warm form.

She’s beautiful when she plays, the elegant line of her neck, long fingers coaxing out individual notes, stringing them together in an intricate symphony. The tune feels strangely familiar, tugging at the back of her mind, an almost palpable memory just out of reach. Natasha closes her eyes and lets the music wash over her, trying to remember, to put the pieces together.

It comes to her suddenly, the memories piecing together in a rush; the strains of delicate music coming through the speakers in a dance studio, echoing off wooden floors as Katrina _bourrées_ across the room; the sounds of the bow drawn across the cello in the orchestra as the principal ballerina in a white tutu steps up _en pointe_ , one leg raised behind her in _attitude_ , arms raised in open-fourth, bent at the wrist to resemble swan wings.

The music comes to an end, but the memories stay fresh in her mind, and she’s not quite sure how she’s managed to push them aside, collecting dust in the dark recesses of her mind until now. She sees Maria relax, letting the arm holding the bow fall to her side, and allows herself to move closer, lets herself be drawn back into Maria’s orbit the same way she’s always been, still feeling slightly off-kilter at the sudden burst of recollection.

She’s barely moved five steps towards Maria when Maria evidently notices her presence, placing the violin she’s holding back down into its case, before turning to face her.

“Hey you,” Maria says, a silent apology clear on her face, as Natasha steps into her space. “Did I wake you?”

Natasha shakes her head once, allowing Maria to pull her closer, left arm wrapping around her waist as her right hand snakes its way into red locks, tugging gently to tilt Natasha’s head up to press a soft kiss on her forehead. She all but melts into the gentle touch, savouring the press of Maria’s lips against her skin for a second before pulling back to rest her forehead against Maria’s.

“Nightmare?” Maria asks, stroking lightly at the short red wisps of hair at the base of her neck. She shivers at the sensation, feeling the weight of Maria’s questioning gaze upon her. And she wants nothing more than to tell her, she does, she really does. But the thought of reliving those moments in terrifying detail once more causes a stab of panic to run through her, the words getting stuck in her throat, choking her. She feels her hands start to tremble, and immediately balls them into fists, focusing on the small pricks of pain of her nails cutting into her skin, on Maria’s warm hands on her skin, until her hands steady.

She settles for a half-truth instead.

“It was cold and I missed you.” she whispers into the space between them, not quite meeting Maria’s eyes.

It’s a poor lie, even Natasha knows that. One that Maria sees through immediately and she pulls back. Concerned blue eyes study Natasha’s face carefully, a quiet, searching look for answers that Natasha doesn’t know how to give. Maria’s left hand comes up, thumb gently stroking over her cheekbone and Natasha can’t help but lean into the touch, letting the warmth of her hand melt the chill that had settled in her bones. Natasha moves her right hand to cup Maria’s, turning her head to the side to press her lips against the palm of her hand.

She’s missed this, missed the feeling of Maria’s soft skin beneath her lips in the five years that had passed without her, the way she stands, steady and unwavering. A constant through the mess that was her life since she had joined SHIELD - until suddenly, she wasn’t.

“You okay?”, Maria finally lets the question fall from the tip of her tongue, though she can very well see that Natasha’s not.

Natasha tangles their fingers together, bringing Maria’s left hand down, brushing her lips over the indentations of the strings on her fingertips before massaging them gently. “Are you?” she turns the question back on Maria quietly, a rhetorical one that requires no response. The dark circles under bloodshot eyes are answers enough.

A part of her still feels a little like she’s shaking out of her bones, feeling her legs dangle in mid-air before she plummets down, praying to a god she doesn’t believe in that they manage to pull off this absolutely insane plan. “I’m alive.” she settles for, knowing full well that wasn’t the question Maria had been asking, yet Maria doesn’t press her for more, the same way she never did all those years ago after Natasha had woken, trembling from nightmares.

“That piece you were playing,” she says, changing the subject, looping her other hand around Maria’s neck, carding her fingers through dark hair. “ _Le Cygne_ by _Camille Saint-Saens_ right?”

Maria looks up at her, head cocked slightly to the side, curiosity glimmering at the edges of her eyes. If she was surprised by the abrupt segue, she didn’t show it. “Yeah, how did you - do you just know everything?”

Just like that, the knot in her stomach loosens as the tension dissipates, and she’s filled with warmth once more. Natasha smirks and lets her fingers wander, finding the spot at the base of Maria’s neck. “I only pretend that I know everything remember?” she teases as she presses down with her thumb, rubbing it in small circular motions to release some of the tension there. The sides of her mouth twitch up higher when Maria gasps, a beatific expression overtaking her features, closing her eyes in contentment, tilting her head back to place more pressure on the spot. “I recognised it. It’s a beautiful piece that was choreographed to for a variation called the Dying Swan.”

Maria’s eyes open slightly, hazy with pleasure to meet Natasha’s. “Is that from Swan Lake?”

Natasha chuckles and shakes her head in response. “Nope, although many people think it is. It’s definitely influenced many modern versions of Swan Lake though.” She swallows heavily, torn between telling her more about the dance and not wanting to delve too much into the allegory of it.

She could just leave it at that. She doesn’t need to bring it up, dredge up her past that has somehow tangled itself up in the memories of her death that haunt her every night. Maria wouldn’t know any different if she didn’t bring it, wouldn’t push her to talk about it unless she brought it up first.

She makes a split second decision, and drops the arm slung around Maria’s neck, lowering herself to the ground, backing up until her back hits the wall behind. Their tangled hands force Maria to do the same, scooting slightly until she’s facing Natasha as comfortably as she can manage in that awkward position. It’s a long story and she doesn’t intend to be standing for the whole of it. She exhales harshly, breath rattling in her throat as her heart thumps loudly in her chest, leaning back against the wall, almost willing it to hold her up.

“You can probably tell from the name but the Dying Swan is about an injured swan moments before her death and how the swan faces it’s death.”

Maria’s attention snaps immediately to her, the gravity of her words going unmissed. They hadn’t talked about this, about Natasha sacrificing herself for that damn stone. Not explicitly at least. They’ve talked around it, fragments of the before to the after in the days that had passed after Natasha turned up at Maria’s doorstep, unsure and uncertain, taking in the grief that sat heavy on Maria’s shoulders as Maria whispered her name almost as if it was a form of benediction. But never the issue itself, never about how it affected either of them, a line that neither of them seemed willing to cross - until now.

The hand still holding onto Natasha’s squeezes lightly, a source of comfort, reminding her that she’s not back there on that cold, lonely planet alone, that she’s alive. “I’ve seen it performed a couple of times before. The choreography’s simple but what really draws you in is the artistry." She hesitates for a second before forging on. "It tells you a lot about a person, the way they choose how to approach the piece, how they think they would face death, you know?”

Maria nods a little at that, making a soft sound of encouragement, eyes never quite leaving her face.

“The first time I saw it performed was during the Red Room. There was this girl, Katrina. She was in an older age group than I was. Madame B. told us to come in and watch her perform the variation one day. She coached her through it, telling her to imagine how she would feel if she was on the brink of dying, injured and alone, making her start over when she couldn’t seem to do it the way Madame B. wanted her to, until she was so exhausted her ankles gave way. It didn’t matter that she could barely stand because what Madame wanted, she would get.”

She remembers the way Katrina’s legs shook as she pushed herself off the ground, clinging onto the barre for support, blood seeping through the satin of the box of her shoes. The punched out sound of breath leaving her lungs when Katrina’s back hit the barre, before Madame’s hand squeezed wrapped around her throat and squeezed, the glint of a knife in her other hand.

“So she pulled out a knife and pressed it to Katrina’s throat until she bled and told her to do it again and do it right.” Natasha doesn’t miss the way Maria’s spine goes rigid, breathing slow steady breaths that were too even to be natural, expression on her face carefully neutral. “And she did it, barely managing to get over the box with how badly she was shaking,” Natasha continues, and if she closes her eyes she could still see the look of fear on Katrina’s face as she lowered herself to the ground, the way her arms moved, fluttering behind her as blood dripped down her throat, the very picture of a dying swan. “Almost like she was fighting against death, fighting to stay alive.”

Natasha looks away then, a bitter smile on her face. “Madame shot her straight after.” she says, eyes studying the patterns on the hardwood floors, wishing she could erase the memory of blood pooling on similar wooden floors. “It was a lesson for all of us. That we should never show our fear even in the face of death. Not when we’re afraid, never unintentionally.”

She had learnt that lesson quickly, learning to mask her fear and keep it hidden below her skin, taking it and turning it into a weapon that she could control and manipulate, just like every other emotion. Never a weakness to be exploited by her enemies unless she chose to let it be.

“The next time was when I was in the Bolshoi Ballet. The principal dancer was rehearsing this piece the morning before the show.” Natasha recalls watching her from the side of the stage while she stretched out sore muscles, midway between sewing ribbons on a new pair of pointe shoes. The way her needle had paused halfway through satin, forgotten, in the face of the grief evident on porcelain features as the ballerina, gliding across the floor with a practiced elegance that Katrina lacked. How that sadness had morphed into gentle acceptance as she knelt, arms gracefully moving to cover her face in her last fight against death. “It was almost serene, the way she portrayed it. As though she was ready for it, embracing her death.”

She takes a quick second to re-center herself, fiddling with the too-long sleeves of Maria’s hoodie with her free hand.

“I’ve always thought that maybe that’s how I would face my death.” Natasha says quietly, finally meeting Maria’s eyes again, giving her a wry smile. “I’ve been prepared for it for a long time now, since before Clint chose to bring me in. Maybe I’ve always been, with how long I’ve been in the business. I’ve had time to imagine how it happens in a million different ways, had my share of close shaves before this.”

It had always been a possibility - the probability of getting killed in action was a certainty rather than a mere rarity, all of them more than willing to die - for the cause, for the success of their mission, to keep others safe, for a countless number of different reasons “I thought I was ready. I knew how it was going to end and I made my choice. I swore to Steve before we started this all, you know?" Natasha smiles shakily, "Whatever it takes. Even at the cost of my own life.”

Maria’s grip on her tightens minutely and Natasha’s gaze immediately cuts to her face, seeing the quick flash of an emotion she couldn’t decipher on her face, before it’s replaced by a blank look. It doesn’t matter though because she’s known Maria long enough to hazard a guess about what she was thinking, especially with the way her mouth has thinned into a line. “You would have done it too, if it were you”, Natasha reminds her, nudging her gently.

Maria opens her mouth to protest before thinking it through, jaw snapping shut. “I would have,” she grits out reluctantly, releasing a breath. “Doesn’t mean that I’m okay with it though, with you being so blasé with your life.”

Natasha nods in understanding, rubbing her thumb in soothing circles, waiting for Maria’s grip to loosen. It’s always been a sore point between them, long before they were together. Maria laying her out for being reckless in missions when she first joined SHIELD, riling her up so much until one day she snapped, furious with her for micromanaging her. She didn’t understand it back then, blaming it on Maria being too by the book and uptight until she had noticed Maria doing the same with most other agents. Over time, she had realised that it was because Maria cared, unwilling to lose a single agent if it could be prevented. Sacrifices had to be made, but never if there was another way, and never excessively.

“It’s what we do, make those impossible choices. And I didn’t make that decision lightly.” she says matter-of-factly, countering Maria’s words without any anger behind it. “I knew it was worth a shot. It was the one hope that we hadn’t seen in years, one that could finally bring everyone back, bring my family back, Laura and the kids, and... _you_. Between me and millions of others, the choice was obvious and I knew it, was ready to take it. And yet, I was -”

She curses the fact that her voice wavers then, breaking with the emotion that hits her in waves. She remembers measuring the distance between the bottom of the cliff and where she was hanging on, and deeming it far enough to kill her almost instantly, her brain ruthlessly efficient at providing those answers as always. She pulls her knees tightly to her chest, resting her chin on them, feeling dangerously close to crying even though her eyes stay as dry as the desert dunes they had trekked through to get to the soul stone.

“I was afraid, although I shouldn’t have been.” Natasha finally huffs out, running her hand over her forehead in frustration, tilting her head back to rest against the wall. Her next words come out in a whisper. “I just never thought it would be that hard to let go. It’s stupid I know.”

A gentle hand under her chin stops her midway through shaking her head, guiding her to look back up into serious blue eyes. “Hey, no. That’s not stupid, Nat.” Maria says, wrapping her arm loosely around her waist, grounding her, a tentative offer of support if she decided to accept it. “Just terribly human.”

Natasha takes the invitation, lets herself collapse into Maria’s embrace, burying her face into the space between Maria’s collarbone and neck, as Maria shifts to bear more of Natasha’s weight. “Maybe you just found something worth holding on to this time,” Maria whispers, resting her head on Natasha’s, lips pressed against red hair.

Natasha struggles with that piece of information. The Red Room had taught her that love was dangerous, tying people down with bonds of sentimentality and feelings. It made them fearful of all the things they could potentially lose, making them susceptible to pain. She had made her peace with that a long time ago, getting attached to the Avengers, to Laura and the kids, to Maria slowly, unknowingly. The fact was that she would willingly give up anything to save them, especially her life.

But for love to tether her to this very version of herself - to Natasha Romanoff who was no longer just a mere alias, another name in her long list of cover identities? To want to live for the people she loved? That was a slightly unnerving thought.

But perhaps not an unwelcome one.

As Natasha mulls over her revelation, Maria idly traces random patterns on the small of her back. They sit there in the early morning, listening to the faint sounds of traffic as the city starts to wake, mixed with their quiet breaths, savouring the rare moment of peace together, the calm in the center of the storm.

“I dream of it, of dying” Natasha eventually lets herself admit after some time, into the safety of the early morning. She suddenly feels an overwhelming sense of exhaustion wash over her. “I don’t feel fine,” she mumbles, words muffled against the fabric of Maria’s shirt, finally answering Maria’s earlier question.

Natasha can feel Maria’s sharp intake of breath, the movement jostling her slightly from where she’s still pressed up against Maria, practically a boneless mass of deadweight sitting on her lap that must be somewhat uncomfortable for Maria, despite her lack of complaints about the situation.

“I think about it too, you know. I can’t stop thinking about it.” Maria says, her voice heavy with grief and pain. Natasha feels arms tighten around her desperately, almost as though Maria was trying to reassure herself that Natasha was alive and standing in front of her, not just a figment of her imagination. “I’m not either.”

The quiet admission hits her deep in her chest, guilt rising in the back of her throat as she twists in Maria’s lap, sliding her hands from where they were circling Maria’s back to her upper arms, running her hands up and down comfortingly. “I’m sorry,” she says, the words spilling out of her mouth, and she’s not sure what she’s apologising for. For being stupid enough to break down in front of her, forcing Maria to console her even though she too was clearly falling apart at the seams? For choosing to sacrifice herself and putting Maria through the same pain she’d felt after the Decimation? For constantly being the cause of her worry and sleepless nights?

“I’m sorry, for putting you through all of this.”

She settles on an all-encompassing apology, because she is sorry for that. For always being the one to hurt Maria in the worst of ways even though she had sworn to protect her from anything that would cause her pain. Maybe it was always going to be a double-edged sword, two sides of the same coin. Perhaps her love for this incredible, wonderful woman would always be what brought her the most pain.

Natasha can feel Maria shaking her head before she even finishes her sentence, hands fisting through her hair, forcing her to pull back and settle her weight on her heels, to meet Maria’s eyes. “Don’t you dare Nat,” Maria growls out, and Natasha is struck by the quick flash of anger through those blue eyes, dark as the sky of a brewing storm. “Don’t you apologise for this. We’ve been through this before. I chose this, to be with you. I knew what I was getting, being with you and I did it anyway. So you don’t get to take back or apologise for all of the decisions that I’ve chosen to make.”

Natasha swallows heavily, sliding a hand up to trace the sharp line of Maria’s jaw. “I know,” she says, eyes flickering down to where her thumb is stroking the spot where Maria’s jaw meets her neck before meeting Maria’s eyes once more, repeating herself more softly this time. “I know.”

“Good,” Maria nods sharply, every bit the Deputy Director she had once been. “Because I promised you that I was going to be beside you through it all. And I’m not going back on that any time soon.” Maria relaxes slightly, tension sliding out of her all at once, eyes softening as she gazes fondly at Natasha. “For better or for worse, remember?”

And Natasha does remember - the way her world had felt like it was collapsing around her, family torn into pieces as she walked away from the hospital where Rhodey laid, unconscious. It had stung, the way Tony had thrown her past back in her face. And maybe he had a point because she was a fugitive once more, running away and hiding in the shadows like she had always been. She remembers how she had gone straight back to Maria’s apartment, _their_ apartment, the day’s events spilling out of her mouth, regret sitting heavy on her tongue as she wondered if the timing would ever be right for them to be together for once, without all the batshit insane things happening in their lives threatening to tear them apart every time.

She remembers the way Maria had held her up, held her together, promising that they would find a way, that she wasn’t going to give up on this, that they were always going to be in this together, for better or for worse.

She remembers knowing that that was it for her, that there was never going to be anyone else other than Maria. That she was always going to be the one.

And maybe a small part of her had always known and was just too stubborn to accept it before then.

So she tells Maria, “I do,” feeling a small smile slip onto her face at that memory. And maybe if their lives were different, if they had been regular, normal people, those two words could have been said in a very different situation by now - as a lifelong promise, a vow to each other to love and support each other through it all.

But they weren’t normal people leading mundane lives.

And maybe that was okay, because that was what brought them together in the first place, led them to meet in the most unusual of circumstances.

And maybe one day, they would get to have that too, to make that vow to each other officially. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Either way, the meaning behind those two words would remain. A sacred promise to keep fighting alongside each other, to keep fighting together _for_ each other.

“Feels like worse is always happening though.” she says jokingly, a weak attempt at distracting Maria from the fact that she was turning into an emotional mess.

Maria hums a little in agreement, edges of her mouth lifting up into a sardonic smile, eyes sparkling in the moonlight, edges of them crinkling in a way that Natasha had somehow forgotten how much she loved.

Her lips are chapped and peeling slightly at the edges, hair tousled and messy in the way that it gets when it dries after a shower, and she’s just so _beautiful_.

Natasha suddenly gets the overwhelming urge to kiss her. So she does - giving in to that thought and completely ruining the facade of being calm and collected - tucking her toes under her, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, pushing up on her knees, hand sliding to thread through Maria’s hair, gripping as Maria moves to meet her halfway. When they finally break apart, Natasha can’t help but smirk at the dazed look on Maria’s face, the way her hair is sticking up at the back adding to her disheveled look.

“What was that for?” Maria asks when she finally catches her breath.

Natasha takes a moment to smooth her dark hair back down before answering. “Just for being you,” she shrugs, before tangling their hands together once more. “Come on,” she says, tugging lightly at Maria as she pushes herself back onto her feet, guiding them back to the bedroom, and settles back down under the sheets.

She turns to face Maria who’s still studying her intently, with that furrow in her brow, searching for an answer to a question that Natasha doesn’t know of.

“Stop thinking,” she chides, smoothing out the crease in Maria’s forehead before tapping her lightly on the nose. She grins as Maria crinkles her nose throwing her a look of mock offence before breaking into a smile that makes Natasha feel like she’s swallowed the feeling of warm spring air on skin after a brutally cold winter spell. She slides an arm under Maria’s waist to pull her in closer, the other reaching to tuck an errant strand of hair that flops into Maria’s eyes behind her ear gently. She’s sure that Maria can feel her heart rate double from where she’s lying with her ear pressed to Natasha’s chest, as Maria sends her a soft smile of appreciation.

But Maria doesn’t say a word about it, just curls up a little tighter against Natasha’s side, eyes closing tiredly as the days of sleepless nights catch up to her, mind blissfully silent at long last as Natasha strokes her forehead lightly.

She waits for Maria’s breaths to even out, before whispering a quiet confession, fingers moving to comb through dark, silky strands. “For the record, you’re worth every single one of those worse days.” She lifts her head up, careful not to jostle Maria, pressing a kiss on the top of her head.

Natasha smiles fondly as Maria moves subconsciously into her touch, making a soft sound of contentment that deepens into a snore. Her eyes flit across the scene in front of her, memorising every detail and burning it into her memory, willing herself to remember this very feeling, savouring it and saving it for the future when things went south again.

She watches the room get brighter as seconds creep by turning into minutes, the sun rising once more, a singular beam of sunlight creeping into the room through the gap in the curtains and settling at the bottom of the bed near where their feet rest, legs tangled together under the sheets.

Maybe they weren’t okay right now, both struggling with their own fears and demons, memories of losing the ones they loved the most haunting them in their dreams and every waking moments. But perhaps, the pain would get better with time - the same way old photographs seem to fade over time, making everything seem softer and sweeter - never quite gone, but easier to live with. Easier to face, especially together.

They would be okay, Natasha thinks, as she studies the way the dust particles dance in the golden beam of sunlight, listening to Maria’s light snoring, feeling the arm still wrapped under Maria’s waist lose sensation under her weight.

Maybe even better than okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything non-academic in more than two years and then endgame happened and I was so determined to write something with a happy ending. because that's what we deserve I think, some hope in the world that maybe things will get better. 
> 
> I know my writing isn't the best but please do go easy on me though because i really haven't written fiction in years, and i've never written anything quite so long before. it's only been beta-d by me so far because I just realised far from home is coming out and I wanted to get this out before that and also so that I would stop poking at this damn fic and actually start studying. Also I left the situation of Nat returning back to earth real vague because I was working on a fic (that might never be finished because I can't quite figure out plot besides spacetravel!AU) that could be tied into this so don't come at me.


End file.
